


Damn Your Eyes: Five Times Peter Felt Guilty (and one time he didn't)

by labelladonna99



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Confessions, Episode: s04e17 The Wall, Eventual Romance, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex, Slash, Wall-verse, no guilt, petlar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-02-29 06:00:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18772666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelladonna99/pseuds/labelladonna99
Summary: Peter grabbed Sylar’s shirt with both hands, wanting to shove him off the bench but instead he just shook him.“Why?” He growled. “Of all the goddamn people, why you?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I tried something with this story that I haven't done before. I didn't feel ready to handle the complexity of it until now....you'll have to let me know in the comments how I did. But all of that comes later.
> 
> The title is from Etta James' Damn Your Eyes.

It was one mocking taunt of his family too many that had Peter pummeling Sylar. From the first punch, vengeance propelled his fists to slam into muscles hardened against his onslaught. Sylar was backed up against a storefront window and crumpling from the blows to his midsection. He would never capitulate but Peter wasn’t so deluded by his hate and anger that he didn’t know when to stop. It was surprising then, when Sylar held up a hand, not to block because only one finger was raised and what good would that do to ward off Peter’s furious fists? But it worked because Peter, curious to know what Sylar was trying to communicate, stepped back just in time for Sylar to twist his body to one side, bend forward and vomit on the concrete. Sylar staggered away from the mess and leaned against the window, slowly sliding down and leaving a clean swath of glass in his wake. He came to rest with his head tipped back, long legs akimbo and both arms clutching his gut.

 _Ahh, jeez. So much for knowing when to stop._ Still winded but with adrenaline fading, Peter resisted asking if Sylar was alright. What he really wanted to do was an examination for signs of trauma but Sylar wasn’t going to allow that. Nor was he likely to let Peter to drag him to the hospital for a CT scan. The machines might not even work. TVs and radios and computers didn’t. Peter would have to wait and watch and listen. Probably have to ask some questions too. There was no blood in Sylar’s emesis and he was conscious but there were other symptoms to assess. Peter crouched as close as he thought Sylar would tolerate, not wanting to stress him further while he covertly inspected him.

As Sylar’s respiration slowed, Peter lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the pavement. Sylar opened one eye, looked at Peter and closed his eye again.

“Sylar?”

No answer. Around them, the city lay quiet in a waiting exhalation of breath that never came.

“Sylar, I need to ask you some questions.”

Still nothing. Peter had spoken loudly enough to be heard. Sylar was fully capable of responding. The guy was being an asshole, nothing new. Peter took a moment to calm himself and avoid telegraphing his annoyance to the other man who no doubt would enjoy getting on his nerves. Then again Peter had put Sylar on the defensive. He supposed he deserved the silent treatment he was getting.

“Can you describe the pain on a scale of one to ten?“

Sylar rolled his head to one side and opened his eyes to give Peter his patented sardonic stare. “Spare me the caring EMT routine, Petrelli. That’s just your guilt talking.”

That truth landed as squarely as Peter’s earlier punches had fallen on Sylar’s body. Peter tried again. “Will you answer some questions about your injuries?”

“No.” Sylar’s gaze was firm and direct. Peter would have preferred a closer look at his pupils but if Sylar could muster his customary arrogance, his brain hadn’t taken too hard a hit. His gut was another matter, since most of Peter’s attack had been concentrated there.

“I don’t suppose you’d let me walk you home and keep an eye on you for a few hours?” Peter asked, knowing it was futile but persisting anyway.

“Will you carry my books for me, too?” Sylar nodded in the direction of the library books that had gone sprawling when the fight began. “If I had known this was going to turn into a date, I would’ve done a better job with my hair this morning.”

“That’s a ‘No’ then, huh?” Peter replied. It was frustrating because all he wanted to do was make sure the guy was okay. There were a lot of things that could go wrong from blunt trauma to the abdominal area.

“If you find me dead tomorrow morning, you’ll have your answer.” Sylar said. “I doubt I’m that badly injured. You’re a maniac with your fists but don’t flatter yourself that you’re strong enough to kill me. I’m not some pathetic weakling. I’m not going to assuage your guilt, either. Some paramedic you are, beating the crap out of people.”

Peter had no response to that. The last time they’d fought, Sylar had won and could have smashed Peter’s skull on the asphalt. He hadn’t. And now that the roles were reversed, Peter had failed to extend the same mercy. He had let his temper rule his behavior and that was nothing to be proud of. The things Sylar had said about his family had hurt — the truth often did. But words only left their bloody handprints on the psyche. They didn't maim or kill. Peter suspected that there was a calculation to the insults that he would react exactly as he had. But why? Did Sylar enjoy being beaten up?

Sylar continued to eye Peter as Peter assessed him with concern that he might have ruptured a vital organ or caused internal bleeding. “Why are you still here?” Sylar finally asked. “Go away.”

“If you’re that eager to get rid of me, then let me help you. I’ll leave as soon as I’m sure you’re going to be alright.” Peter rose up on his haunches again and inched closer. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your place.”

“Why do you care? Does it ruin your good guy self image to know you could’ve killed me? At least you’re not sniveling over your precious brother this time.”

It was a cruel reference to Mercy Heights but Peter called his better angels out of hiding to withstand the insult and reached out to help Sylar stand. Sylar looked at the offered hand as if it might bite him and then took it anyway. The two men rose slowly together, with Peter placing a hand on Sylar’s shoulder to steady him. Sylar’s eyes were on Peter’s the whole time, his gaze dark and opaque in the shade of the building. He swayed forward then and the sunlight hitting his face before he righted himself turned his eyes a warm topaz color. They were fringed by thick lashes. Peter blinked at the oddity of noticing such a thing under the circumstances. Sylar’s eyes were beautiful, devoid of their usual ferocity and painfully human.

“Oh right. You need me to save your friends. That’s why you want me in one piece,” Sylar said with a bitter snort as he pushed Peter away.

“That’s not it either,” Peter answered, observing how Sylar carried himself. His posture had straightened and Peter took that as a good sign. He couldn’t help admiring the guy’s resilience. With no older brother to tutor him, Sylar lacked Peter’s practiced fighting skill but he could take a lot of abuse. The implications of that — past and present — were unsettling.

“No?” Sylar snorted again.

“Okay, that’s part of the reason.” Peter gathered up the fallen library books and held them out to Sylar. “It’s not the only one.”

Sylar snatched the books. “Then what is? You’re not the mysterious type and dressing in black doesn’t change that.”

Peter tipped his head to one side, closed his eyes for a moment and sighed at the admission he was about to confess. “I don’t want to be alone, okay?” It was probably stupid of him to say so and might start the fight all over again but it was true.

“Hmmpf. Nobody wants that, Peter.” Sylar’s voice was raw with honesty. “Nobody wants to be alone.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_New York, looking down on Central Park, where they say you should not wander after dark_ …

Peter hummed the old Simon and Garfunkel tune as he clambered up onto the rooftop balustrade. He was on the highest of the building’s multi-level observation decks, the only one with no glass between himself and the glorious view of the city beyond. It would take some doing to jump off this roof, surrounded as it was by the lower decks. With climbing equipment, he might be able to scale the glass walls below and hoist himself over. Would he die when he landed? Or would he wake up back in Matt Parkman’s basement with a comatose Sylar and the smell of drying mortar in his nostrils? Only one way to find out.

He didn’t have any equipment though and he didn’t really want to test the theory. Not anymore. He’d thought about repeating his fateful rooftop leap from long ago, albeit for different reasons this time. When it had become clear there was no easy way out of this empty world and he didn’t think he could tolerate Sylar for another day, it occurred to him that ending his presence in this dream might not be a permanent exit. Then again, it might be. He wasn’t suicidal, despite the accusations of Nathan, his mother and now, even Sylar. In any case, Peter was up here today to see the city, to gaze down on the beloved park where he’d spent so many happy hours. As much as he adored the park, Peter had always had an affinity for the city’s heights, too. This was one of the greatest vantage points and Peter had never had it all to himself, until now.

For an hour or so, he reveled in it. He’d never be allowed to stand up here on the ledge if he were in the real city. Behind Peter, the sun sat low in the sky, not quite sunset, but getting there. It was a clear, cold day and winter’s chill breeze numbed his ears and face.

Peter jumped down from his perch and strolled around the roof, appreciating the view from all angles, until he faced the Empire State Building. He wanted to watch the sun splashing colors across the sky before it was swallowed by the horizon. The city lights began to blink on with the arrival of dusk, millions of glittering jewels winking at him as if they shared a tempting secret: _All this can be yours_. But as darkness descended to meet the sky’s fading bands of color, the peaceful solitude became foreboding. It was time to leave. The building lights always went out shortly after dark and this was no place to be alone under the black canvas of night. Peter didn’t examine the absurdity of lights going off when they were most needed since nothing else in this place conformed to logic.

Peter couldn’t decide what was worst about Sylar’s mind-prison: the absence of people, the absence of any other living beings, the absence of powers, or the presence of Sylar. He understood all too well why this was Sylar’s worst nightmare. It wasn’t exactly paradise for Peter.

How anyone could withstand this extreme loneliness for long was beyond him, yet Sylar believed he had been alone here for three years. At first, Peter had assumed the serial killer was delusional. The guy’s behavior from the moment Peter had spotted him was off kilter. He had approached Peter warily, touched him to prove he was real and then yelled at him, insisting Peter was a malevolent figment of his imagination, here to trick him into losing what was left of his mind. After Peter chased him to persuade Sylar that he didn’t mean him any harm and had come to free him, the killer had settled. But not for long. Convinced there was no possible escape, his behavior remained erratic, with a volatile trip-wire temper that Peter kept inadvertently stepping on. That’s why he was here, far from Sylar’s usual haunts. He had been skirting the man for the better part of two weeks because he was tired of the seesawing moods and their never-ending fights. Sylar’s sanity or lack thereof remained an open question but his belief in his lonely three-year vigil no longer seemed so crazy.

That and the sheer weight of the city’s quiet had led Peter to choose an apartment only blocks from Sylar’s. It was counterintuitive to sleep in a place that would be dead simple for Sylar to invade. Yet he didn’t think Sylar would try to kill him and so far he’d been proven correct. The man had seemed so relieved upon first sighting Peter and every reunion after periods of separation was tinged with that same relief. They fought, retreated and returned to confront one another again. Peter would never admit it, but he preferred the company of his enemy to the impersonal, empty city. In small doses, anyway.

There was no guarantee Sylar wouldn’t turn on the only other human alive, but Peter had decided it was a chance he was willing to take. Not without some precautions, of course, including the baseball bat he kept near his bed and the extra deadbolts he had installed on his door, hedging the depth of Sylar’s loneliness against his poorly contained rage. Sylar was powerless, too, after all, and Peter had kicked his ass often enough to feel some measure of security in knowing he could do it again if necessary.

Peter was at ground level now and though his watch didn’t work, the sky’s deepening from dusky blue to inky black warned him that the billboards would soon go dark and all the building windows would become black holes. He could make it back in twenty minutes or so, faster if he ran. The empath's legs picked up speed and soon he was sprinting down the avenue. He didn’t want to be far from his apartment when full darkness fell, leaving the occasional corner streetlights with the impossible task of penetrating the gloom of empty sidewalks lined with silent hulking buildings. It was irrational to fear the nothingness that couldn’t hurt him yet Peter missed the squirrels, rats, pigeons, and two-legged critters that had always scuttled their way through the city. Propelled by such thoughts, Peter didn’t anticipate crashing into Sylar in front of his building.

“Whoa! Easy there Marathon Man.” Sylar threw his hands up protectively and although Peter slowed in time to avoid knocking him down, the momentum made it seem as if he’d leapt into Sylar’s arms.

“Sorry, man,” Peter said, catching his breath as Sylar dropped the hands that had come to rest on Peter’s biceps. “I didn’t think you’d be out after dark.” _Not to mention on my doorstep._

“I could say the same for you,” Sylar said. “Why were you running like the hounds of Hell were at your back?” Sylar’s brows drew together in suspicion as if at any moment said hounds would emerge from behind Peter.

“No reason, just felt good to run.” Peter wasn’t copping to the spookiness of the encroaching night. “Chill out. I’m not being followed. There’s nobody else here, just us.”

Sylar accepted that and followed Peter inside but not without taking another glance around as he stepped through the doorway. Peter didn’t travel any further than the lobby. Sylar had a tendency to trail after him and Peter wasn’t about to invite him upstairs, but how to politely get rid of him?

Sylar derailed that line of thought when he reached into the plastic bag looped over his arm and retrieved a small white box that he handed to Peter. He watched Peter with an expectant expression.

“What’s this?” Peter asked, curious about the box and the look on Sylar’s face.

“Open it,” Sylar said.

The box was white, perfectly square and criss-crossed with a length of fine red and white string tied in a bow. Peter pulled at it to loosen the knot and lifted the box’s lid.

“A cupcake?” Peter asked, stupidly stating the obvious and returning a quizzical glance at Sylar.

“An entire birthday cake would be excessive,” Sylar raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “Then there’s the matter of what I would write on the birthday cake of the guy trapped in hell with me. So...yes, a cupcake.”

Peter hadn’t tried to mark time and was unaware until this moment that it was his birthday. Then again, it wasn’t really his birthday; time seemed to have sprouted jet engines since he’d arrived in Sylar’s dream, but it was an illusion, like everything else. Peter held fast to that belief; his sanity depended on none of this being real. He also didn’t bother to ask how Sylar knew his birth date. Sylar knew a lot of things. The medic stumbled through an expression of gratitude, dumbfounded that Sylar — a ruthless killer who had murdered Nathan — would give him a cupcake on his birthday. It was more of the man’s odd behavior. This was the second gift Sylar had given him and now Peter felt sheepish for ungratefully letting the comic book flutter to the ground that other time. How long ago had that been? Peter shook his head. He didn’t want to know.

“Aren’t you going to eat it?” Sylar asked. “You know poison isn’t my kink.”

God, he was weird. Peter hadn’t suspected poisoning for even a second. “Um, sure. I’ll eat it when I get upstairs. It looks good.” Just to show that he was grateful — and unafraid — Peter swiped a finger through the swirl of vanilla frosting and brought it to his mouth. “Mmmm. Wow, it IS really good.” Sylar was watching him with avid eyes and an amused little grin; not an actual smile, no, Sylar didn’t do that very often, but the corners of his mouth were turned upwards. “What’s so funny?” Peter asked.

“Nothing.” Sylar’s eyebrow peaked in a way that said otherwise, but the man wasn’t telling and Peter supposed it didn’t matter.

The cupcake in the cold glare of Peter’s fluorescent lit kitchen once he had escaped Sylar’s presence was one of those dividing lines the world was forever presenting — _before_ abilities and now, _after_. Only after manifesting his powers had Peter ever spent a birthday alone, without celebration. In all his life before abilities, there had never been a birthday cake like this, lacking even a single candle to light, sitting alone on a barren counter instead of on a table crowded with food and drink and surrounded by people who loved him. He eyed the bakery treat as if it were exhibit A in his trial for crimes of sheer impulse and idiocy. Charge number one, trying to get Sylar out so the killer could help him in a rescue mission. A cupcake wasn’t going to make him forget who he was dealing with. If anything, he felt lonelier than he had since landing here in Sylar’s mind. Shouldn’t he be wreaking vengeance on his brother’s killer? Family loyalty demanded it, at least in Petrelli circles.

Screw that. Family had gotten him blown apart and Nathan nearly burned to death if not for the timely infusion of Adam’s restorative blood. Family had cost him his original ability and later earned him an orange jumpsuit and a tube up his nose pumping him full of some noxious drug. So who the hell was he to judge when abilities had painted the world in shades of gray that made everyone and everything suspect? If he failed to enlist Sylar’s help, he was letting people down, letting them die. Was it a betrayal of Nathan if Peter allowed Sylar to help him, when that act might redeem the killer? Did Sylar deserve redemption? Did that even matter when lives were at stake?

It was an impossible labyrinth built on layers of guilt and confusion and Peter’s head ached from trying to puzzle his way out. As far as he could see, there was an element of wrongness in every available path. He poured himself a tall glass of water and downed it with two ibuprofen. _A heart in New York_. He snorted derisively at how he had traipsed the city only a few hours ago, humming the sentimental tune and feeling hopeful, somehow. If there had ever been a heartless New York, he was in it now. Peter picked up the cupcake and dropped it into the trash. At the very least, he wasn’t about to enjoy a gift from Sylar.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sylar was reading aloud while Peter hammered at the wall, his constant occupation since the edifice had arisen out of nowhere. It had started with Sylar dragging the Ken Follet book around with him everywhere, reading quietly until one day Peter had said, “Hey why don’t you read out loud? I’d like to hear the story.”

Peter had turned around, catching the surprise on Sylar’s face, but Sylar had composed himself in an instant and had begun to read. It was a pleasant change of pace from the usual silence that was broken only by the sound of the metal sledgehammer head clanging against the brick. It also beat Sylar’s frequent complaints about the futility of Peter’s effort and his habit of haranguing Peter to eat, drink and rest.

Today, Sylar was reading a different book, a spy thriller  Peter had never heard of. Sylar had finished the Ken Follett book on his own, for the millionth time apparently, but Peter didn’t mind not getting to hear the whole story. The words themselves didn’t matter as much as the sound of a human voice that distracted him from their predicament and his frustrating, fruitless task. 

After a few pages, Sylar tossed the book aside. “This book is lame. I could write better descriptions than this author.”

Peter laughed. Sylar’s confidence in his own intellect was boundless. “Go on, let’s hear your version.”

“Alright,” he heard Sylar say behind him and then clear his throat. “The man in black was a silhouette against the slanted rays of waning sunlight. He moved with the grace of a samurai, sure footed and strong as he hefted his weapon overhead.”

“Hey that’s pretty good. You made that up just now?” Peter glanced over his shoulder to see Sylar smirking. One of these days Peter was going to figure out how to erase that smirk. What would Sylar look like if he wiped away the opaque layer of smugness and let a little humanity show through? Sylar was handsome, Peter had to acknowledge, and the combination of stunning good looks, intellect and wit was hard to beat, especially when packaged in a man with such singular focus. A little warmth and kindness and Peter wouldn’t mind being the object of that intense determination. Not at all.

“You like it?”

“Yeah. I can picture it.” Peter returned his concentration to his task, and slammed the wall.

 “Oh I can see it, too.” Sylar’s voice sounded like the purr of a well-tuned motor. From the corner of his eye, Peter detected the movement of Sylar getting to his feet and stepping closer.

“Watch out, dude. I don’t wanna hit you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Sylar asked.

Peter ignored the snark and kept up his pace, aware that Sylar was circling him now, careful not to step within the arc of the swinging hammer. _What is he up to?_

“His sweat-dampened dark hair fell wildly around his face. It was a strong face, its planes and angles sharpened with concentration.”

 _Jeez, is he talking about_ me _? That’s...weird._ Peter tried to let the words fade into the background as he pulled the sledgehammer back, swung it around and hit the wall again. And again. He regretted his taunt now that Sylar was getting the better of him.

“The lines of the man’s body straightened, lean and taut, and then curved as he swung the hammer to hit the wall with precision.”

There was no way Peter could continue with Sylar narrating his actions. “Okay, you made your point,” he said. “Now cut it out.” He stood holding his palm over the handle of the hammer, letting its metal head rest on the ground. His hair was hanging in his face but he resisted the urge to push it aside. _...sweat-dampened hair._ Peter mentally rolled his eyes.

“Oh I’m just getting started.” Sylar grinned and stepped closer.

“The black t-shirt stretched across a firm, muscled chest — “ Sylar’s gaze followed his words. 

“Sylar —“

“Shhh, Peter. Don’t ruin my fun,” Sylar said, his mouth twitching. Peter huffed and turned away but Sylar kept advancing, circling to confront Peter head on.

“...and his powerful thighs were sheathed in dark jeans. Wide hazel eyes stared as the other man inched forward, closing the space between them until — “

Peter backed up _._ “Quit doing that.”

Sylar acted as if he hadn’t heard, hell bent on whatever perverse game he was playing. His eyes gleamed with potent ferocity and Peter wanted him to shut the fuck up but Sylar wouldn’t be quiet and he wasn’t stopping and oh God, Peter didn’t want him to, he wanted to hear the rest, wanted to know what was going to happen when —

“— they were close enough to …”

_My God this is hot…_

_“—_ touch.” Peter felt the whispered word on his face and Sylar’s fingers grazing his cheek. Sylar smoothed Peter’s hair away from his face and buried his hand against Peter’s scalp. His nose was tickling Peter’s temple and his mouth was against Peter’s ear, warm breath shivering across his skin, _so hot, oh fuck, he’s sexy…no, stop, he’s a killer, he’s crazy, but Christ, he’s… I’m … doomed…_ He should step away. He knew that. And yet —

Their chests were just touching now and another hand was trailing over Peter’s hip and around to lie flat just below the small of his back but not quite on his butt. _“_ Did you like my story?” Peter could feel the vibration of Sylar’s rumbling voice where their bodies met. “I think you did. Your heart is beating like a hummingbird’s wings. You’re breathing so...hard. You want me too, don’t you?” Sylar’s lips were soft and warm against Peter’s neck and then he felt the press of teeth, suction and Sylar’s wet tongue soothing over the bruise he was forming on Peter’s skin. Flooded with heat and sensation, Peter’s body was beating his brain into submission.

“Yeah…” he croaked before instantly reversing his response. “I mean no. No.” He brought his arms up between them and pushed Sylar back. “Stop. Get away from me.”

Sylar took the rejection in stride. He was smiling, a wide, toothy shark’s grin. If only he hadn’t done that, hadn’t looked so smug, Peter might have been lost. If that smile had mingled some affection with the desire he saw in Sylar’s eyes, Peter might have welcomed being devoured. Instead, he saw the smile for what it was. Sly. Greedy. Lustful. But not caring, not warm. Not even friendly.

Peter’s face was burning, not because he was turned on. For a minute there, he had been. He had been so ready, so eager to be wanted, to be given what he’d been missing for too long. He'd almost allowed himself to be taken in by someone who only wanted to use him, just as others had done.

“Because you asked nicely, I’ll stop now. Just know that I’m here for you, whenever you want. I can tell you’re close. Closer than you think,” Sylar said.

“No, Sylar,” Peter replied, his brow rising with conviction not in spite of but because of his shame. “Further than you think. A hell of a lot further. You’re not here for me, you’re in it for yourself.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Peter dove into the rooftop pool, holding his breath as long as he could to avoid surfacing. He made it the entire length of the pool and came up, gulping lungfuls of oxygen and diving down again to reverse course. He swam laps until his muscles began to falter and his chest was tight from the abuse his lungs had taken. It worked; he was too wiped out to be agitated. Now he played, floating on his back, doing handstands, diving to the bottom of the deep end and kicking off to shoot back up.

After God knew how many years in an empty city with only one companion, there was no way to sneak up on Peter, even when he was currently butterflying his way across the pool with sloppy, noisy strokes. He was aware of Sylar’s presence the moment the man waded into the pool from the shallow end behind him. Peter turned when he reached the far side of the pool and watched Sylar slicing through the water towards him. Anticipating what was surely going to happen next, Peter abruptly hoisted himself out of the pool and walked down to the shallow end where the lounge chair held the towel he’d brought. He wrapped himself in the towel, sat on the chair and picked up his book.

Sylar hadn’t spoken to him yet. _Good._ They’d argued earlier in the week and Peter had been avoiding him ever since. It had been a stupid argument, not about anything of consequence. Sylar had been trying to explain string theory to Peter and Peter didn’t get it. Furthermore, he didn’t care. His knowledge of astrophysics or lack thereof wasn’t going to get them out of here but Sylar had been so damn condescending about it. And then instead of giving Peter space to cool off after the argument, Sylar continued to stalk him, making a point of showing up wherever Peter was. Like now.

Peter glanced up from the book he was reading to observe Sylar standing on the low diving board at the deep end of the pool. He looked good in swim trunks and he knew it. That’s why he was posing over there, taking his time preparing to dive. Peter wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of watching him show off. He lowered his head to read and a moment later he heard Sylar hitting the water and swimming across the pool. _Great. He’s going to come over here now_. Peter rolled his eyes and exhaled a grumpy breath. Sylar wasn’t going to chase him away.

When Peter looked up again, Sylar was emerging from the water like a model in a sunscreen commercial, tall and lean, with his dripping wet hair in disarray. Peter found himself staring in spite of himself. God, why did people always look so sexy when they were wet? Sylar grabbed a towel and dried his face, standing right next to Peter’s chair, close enough for Peter to observe the glistening beads of water dripping from Sylar’s chest hair.

Sylar noticed Peter ogling him and arched an eyebrow. _Oh for Christ’s sake!_ Peter shot up out of the chair and took off to find his clothes. In the locker room, he didn’t bother changing out of his damp swim trunks and just pulled his jeans on over them. There was no way he was getting naked here when Sylar was bound to follow him. Still shirtless, he sat on the locker room bench to dry his feet and put his socks and shoes on. Any moment now, Sylar would come up behind him and put his hands on Peter’s bare shoulders. He’d say that Peter was so tense and that he could help. His voice would be like warm honey and his hands would be strong and sure, finding all of Peter’s sore spots and pressing hard with his thumbs to loosen the knots. 

It would feel sinfully good to be touched when he’d gone so long without it. Peter would be doing it again, sending mixed signals to the lustful killer, but right then he wouldn’t care. He would take what Sylar was offering for once because he wanted it. It was just a massage and not even a real one; not like he was making himself vulnerable lying face down on a massage table with only a thin towel between them.

At first, Peter would hold himself rigidly, but that would only make his tired muscles feel more cramped so he would force himself to relax. Sylar’s hands would no longer be cool from the water and they would leave trails of warmth everywhere he touched and kneaded. 

“Aaahhh.” Peter would say, letting a sigh of pleasure escape. He wouldn’t be able to help his involuntary response to the massage. Sylar’s fingers would trace circles of pressure up the sides of Peter’s neck and into his scalp. It was an erogenous zone for Peter and he would begin to feel warmth spreading in places Sylar wasn’t touching.

Peter’s breathing accelerated as he imagined Sylar’s hands on him and the sound of Sylar’s breath quickening. It would be more than a massage then and Peter would start to think he should make Sylar stop. But he would do no such thing, unable to put an end to the touch of fingers against his scalp sending warm tingles along every nerve ending.

Peter would fail to stifle a groan when Sylar would begin to sift through his hair, lifting sections and letting them fall, tugging every so often on the ends of the strands.

 “You like that, huh?” Sylar would ask.

“Uhhh,” Peter would manage to croak out. If this continued, they would end up going too far. Sylar would clutch handfuls of hair and tip Peter’s head back.

“Open your eyes.” Sylar would command and Peter would comply. Sylar would lean over to make eye contact and even upside down, there would be no mistaking the heat emanating from his dilated pupils. He would fluff Peter’s hair where he’d been grabbing tufts of it and rest Peter’s head against his abdomen, then he’d slide his hands downward and stroke back up along Peter’s throat to cup his face.

“I want you,” Sylar would say in a voice ragged with lust. “I’m going to break down every defense you have until you can’t say no.”

Even after letting things get to the point of heavy breathing, Peter would want to protest. He couldn’t help how his body would react to Sylar. It was twisted and he would want to say that he’d never sleep with his brother’s murderer. Just because his body betrayed him didn’t mean he would give in. But even he wouldn't believe it anymore.

The sound of a door swinging shut shook Peter from his fantasy. Sylar hadn't come here to seduce him. He’d had his swim and now he was gone. Perhaps he’d gotten the message that Peter didn’t want him. Or he was finally learning to respect some boundaries. Stalking was okay. Getting under Peter’s skin was acceptable. But unsolicited touching was off limits. A wave of embarrassment at his presumption mingled with disappointment and then guilt for having those thoughts in the first place. With an irritated sigh of frustration, Peter pulled his shirt on.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Stop! Just stop already!” Peter launched himself from his chair and stepped away from the table where he and Sylar had been playing backgammon.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the living room in strides too wide for the available space. “This is the part where you break down all my defenses, right?” He whirled on Sylar with an accusing scowl.

“It’s just backgammon. I can’t help it if you’re lousy at it,” Sylar said, widening his eyes and raising his brows in feigned innocence, as if he hadn’t been taunting Peter all day about his privileged upbringing and how it must feel to sell oneself out for the sake of preserving the Petrelli name and reputation.

Sylar hadn't actually said anything about breaking down Peter’s defenses. Peter had imagined Sylar saying it when he’d been fantasizing about the massage that never happened. Still, what Sylar had been doing felt pretty damn close to tearing Peter down in order to manipulate him. It was working, too.

“I get it, alright? I’m alone. I’d be alone even if we weren’t trapped here with nobody else. My family sucks. They used and betrayed and abandoned me. Nobody’s coming to get me out of here. Nobody cares. You’re all I have, right? That’s what you want me to believe.”

It hurt. It was tearing a bandage off an old yet still gaping wound to admit to himself that the people he’d loved and trusted all his life weren’t loving and trustworthy in return. His only consolation was that his brother had sincerely sought his forgiveness. Would Nathan have betrayed him again if he’d lived? Would he have reverted to his selfish and fearful methods of self-preservation at the expense of their relationship? Or would he have come after Peter and pressured Parkman to get him out of this mental prison? _I love you, Pete. You know that, right?_ Peter had replied that he knew and that he loved Nathan, too. He loved him still and always. But he didn’t know what Nathan might have done and he never would.

“Those are your words, Peter. Not mine,” Sylar said with a patient sigh. “Don’t blame me because they happen to be true. Your family are a bunch of scheming, lying manipulators. They don’t deserve you and believe me, I don’t get any pleasure from saying that.”

“No?” Peter said. “You aren’t saying all those things to weaken me and make me think _you_ deserve me?”

“I don’t deserve you either," Sylar murmured, looking away. "I’m the last person to deserve you. But just the same, you’re here. I don’t pretend to understand why fate continues to put you in my path. It seems awfully cruel for the only good person I know to be stuck with a monster like me and I can only assume it’s not by design. It’s just random.” He shrugged apologetically.

“No!” Peter shouted. “It’s _not_ random.” Modulating his volume, he continued. “I came here to get you out so you could help me. I saw you in that dream and I believed that you would save those people. That you would save Emma.”

“And I've already said that I will. If we ever get out of here. I’m not out to hurt you. Not anymore. I never want to hurt anyone ever again.”

They were talking in circles with nothing new being said. Sylar stating the truth wasn’t like delivering lethal blows but words did wound. Words could cause lasting damage, especially when the person wielding them had the power to compel the other person to listen. There was no place else for Peter to go unless he wanted to be utterly alone for who knew how long.

“Then stop insulting me. Stop insulting my family. D’you think I've forgotten what they’ve done? If you think that reminding me constantly of how worthless my life is will make me turn to you, you’re wrong. That’s not how it works. Isolating people so they distrust everything and everyone and are easy to use is what abusers do.”

“You mean like what Bennet did to me?” The bitterness was ever-present whenever Sylar invoked the company man’s name.

“Yeah, like that. And now you're trying to do it to me. It’s not going to work. I don’t bond with people out of desperation. That just makes me want to keep my distance.” That wasn’t entirely true. Peter had bonded with Caitlin under just those circumstances, but what mattered was that she hadn’t been the cause of his predicament. She’d shown him kindness and that was all it had taken for Peter to lose his fractured self in loving her. It was different now. Peter wasn’t suffering from amnesia and he had many reasons not to connect with Sylar any further than required to get him on board with the mission.

“Then tell me what you need.” Sylar said, sounding raw and pleading. “Bonding with people isn’t something I’ve had much success with. I’m a lot better at … other ways of getting what I want.”

Other than his belated but honest apology for Nathan’s murder, it was the most humble statement Peter had heard from him. Sylar called himself a monster and a killer — both true — but those were always said in self-loathing and anger. Cutting himself down wasn’t true humility. It was a stamp of finality, an escape hatch to avoid responsibility for his crimes, as if they were pre-ordained and it was therefore futile to strive for anything better. Sylar’s admission now said that there was room for change, and that he was willing to work for it, to open himself to Peter’s influence.

“What I need — “ Peter took a deep breath, knowing that he was going to ask for something he wasn’t sure he could return. “I need you to have my back. I need you to care about what I care about, which is people. Helping them. Trying to make the world a better place. Can you do that?”

“I can try.” Sylar shook his head and cast his gaze downward. His body language spoke of defeat, negating his words.

“That’s not good enough,” Peter said. He shifted his weight and titled his head, waiting for Sylar to look at him. “You need to commit. Are you with me or not?”

He was making no promises. Not to forgive Sylar. Not to have Sylar’s back beyond what it would take to stop Samuel Sullivan. Not to be friends nor to crawl between the sheets with him on cold nights only to pretend come morning that it hadn’t happened. There were no strings attached to what he was demanding. No rewards for Sylar’s good behavior. If Sylar was going to change for the better, it had to be for the right reasons. The only prize was to cleanse the soul he’d blackened. And the reward for that might very well be more anguish than any man could bear. A soulless husk couldn’t feel the pain he’d caused but a redeemed man might drown in the endless sorrow of people he’d wronged. It was a helluva bargain and it was Sylar’s choice to make.

Sylar was hunched at the shoulders, still looking down, hands stuffed in his pockets. Dejected. Then slowly, he reanimated, straightening his posture and lifting his chin. His gaze followed and he met Peter’s eyes without flinching at the scrutiny. He freed his hands and spread his arms in acquiescence. “Alright then. Yes. You have my word, for whatever that’s worth. I’m with you.”

Peter nearly winced at how difficult it must have been for Sylar to capitulate whole-heartedly. He suppressed it, stubbornly refusing to allow himself any pity for Sylar. His mother had accused him of being headstrong. His father had said he was rebellious. Nathan called him an idiot. All of those things were true. But Peter met people halfway and then some. In another lifetime, if Sylar had been anyone else, Peter would have given him something in return. A touch, a promise, reassurance, cooperation. Even a smile. He had nothing to give Sylar but a nod of acceptance.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“I want to confess.” Sylar said it abruptly, speaking into the silence that had been interrupted by the occasional sound of fingers sliding over paper. Pages turning with no particular speed could only seem rhythmic in a world so still that every movement felt like the start of a pattern.

Peter looked up from his own book. “What d’ya mean?” On the one hand, it was a dumb question, which he realized even as the syllables left his mouth. What else could it mean? On the other hand, Peter already knew what Sylar was and what he’d done. It wasn’t exactly a secret. It never had been. Was there something to confess that was worse than murdering people? If there was, Peter didn’t want to know.

“I’m committing. That’s what you said you wanted. I need to confess my crimes,” Sylar insisted. “Will you hear my confession?”

Peter grimaced at the idea. “I’m not a priest.”

“You’re the closest thing to a saint I’ve ever known.”

“Then you don’t know many people.” The flattery was ego-boosting but more than Peter could live up to. “I’m not remotely close to being a saint. I’ve done bad things. Some were mistakes but … some things, I wanted to do. Would probably do them again. Anyway, I don’t need to hear it. I know most of it already.”

Sylar had to have recognized that the “some things” Peter referred to involved him but he ignored the bait Peter dangled. “I need to say it. Please.”

“Man, you don’t ask for much do you? Forgive you for killing my brother and terrorizing my family. Spend time with you, have sex with you. Now you want to catalogue your crimes and I’m supposed to _listen_ to it. No. That’s not fair. You’re asking too much of me.”

“What do you want me to do? Should I beg?” Sylar slid off the couch and knee-walked over to kneel in front of Peter’s chair. “Fine. I’m begging. I don’t beg anyone for anything. You know that.”

“Stop. Get up. I can’t do this.” Peter tried to stand and Sylar placed his hands on Peter’s thighs and leaned all of his weight on them. His gaze was fierce. Angry. Peter had no choice but to stay put and see, without flinching or looking away, what Sylar was showing him. It was the face of unrelenting torment, of a man teetering on the edge of fathomless despair.

“You have to. You want to get us out, don’t you? So I can save people? Then you have to commit too.” Sylar snorted out a venomous laugh at the way Peter was pulling away. Peter’s back was pressed into his chair so hard he thought his spine might snap from the pressure. Either that or the chair was going to collapse in fragments of splintering wood and shredding fabric.

“You’re afraid. You should be,” Sylar said, sounding like the man Peter remembered from all those years ago in Mohinder’s apartment.

“How do you know you won’t be letting me loose on an unsuspecting world? I don’t want to kill anyone. But you’re forgetting the Hunger. You had it. You know what it was like. This is my penance. To relive all the things I’ve done and recall every person I’ve hurt. All the things I never let myself think about except in nightmares I can’t control. I have to tell it once and for all so I’ll remember their terror and pain every time the hunger has me in its grip, tempting me. I didn’t just kill people. I joked about it and laughed at their fear. I touched their brains and drenched myself in their blood. I am filthy and depraved and I deserve to be tortured and killed by my victims but I can’t die. I shot the albatross and even death can’t save me. I have to pay.”

Sylar’s eyes were those of a cornered beast even though it was Peter who was trapped in his chair and his breathing was rapid, nostrils flaring with the force of air being expelled from his lungs and sucked back in. For the first time in months, maybe years, Peter was terrified of him. He was crazy. Evil. A psycho.

Sylar laughed again. “Sorry, perfect Peter, but this is what you asked for when you said you wanted my remorse. If I’m going to the pit of hell, I’m going to drag you with me. Then you’ll know who you’re really dealing with and you can decide if you truly need _me_ of all people to be a savior. Because maybe you don’t. Maybe you have to face your own pathetic fear and do it yourself. You _are_ alone. So get used to it. Nobody’s coming to save you.”

Sylar leaned back on his haunches and dropped his hands. He was spent now, like a light bulb that had given up its last burst of illumination before its filaments snapped.

Peter’s body relaxed now that Sylar was no longer leaning on him and breathing fire in his face. He exhaled, realizing he’d almost forgotten how to breathe and his back was all pins and needles as the circulation returned. It wasn’t fair. He had demanded Sylar’s reasons for killing and he had pressed him hard for some semblance of regret about his crimes that wasn’t about what he’d done to himself in the process. Asking Sylar to help him save people was crazy enough; it would be sheer folly if Peter couldn’t find any humanity in him. But this? Chapter and verse of all his murders? What kind of glutton for punishment did Sylar take him for? _The kind who ignores all warnings and defies all logic to go looking for his brother’s killer, to ask for his help. That's what kind_. Peter should have known it would come to this but he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Resigned, he gave his answer. “Alright, I’ll listen. But not now. It’s late. Let’s sleep on it and we can talk tomorrow.”

Sylar got to his feet and stretched. In a casual voice as if he hadn’t been raving like a lunatic moments before, he said. “I’ll make up the couch for you.”

“What? No. I need to sleep, Sylar. I’m going back to my place.” He stood up and in an instant Sylar was back in his face.

“Sleep here. Please” He gripped Peter’s arm but there was no force in it; it was almost a caress, something Sylar never did when he wasn’t in seduction mode. “That’s two pleases in one night. Nobody else gets that.” Quieter, almost inaudible, he pleaded. “Don’t leave me, Peter.” It was jolting the way he could shift so suddenly from menacing to needy and how the handsome face that had been contorted in rage now bore the innocence of a frightened child. Defeated again, Peter accepted the bedding Sylar brought him.

They began after breakfast the next morning. Sylar cooked pancakes and plied Peter with coffee to keep his energy up, saying he would need it. They tussled briefly over how to do it. Sylar wanted Peter’s full attention, face to face, but Peter won that round, insisting that Sylar sit on the couch, facing the kitchen. Peter would sit in a chair, adjacent to the couch so that Sylar could turn his head if he wanted to look at him. There was no way he was going to make unremitting eye contact while Sylar described his murders.

Sylar’s voice was mechanical. The story was anything but. Sylar could spin a tale, though Peter knew that every word of it was true, not just the details but the thoughts and feelings that Sylar wove through the actions he described. The overwhelming lust he felt for the abilities Chandra Suresh promised and then snatched away. The manipulation he’d used to lure his first victim, and the satisfaction of smashing the man’s skull to take his power. How did he know? Sylar shrugged. “Intuitive aptitude. My first ability. It was there all along. Suresh missed it. Everyone did. None of their tests could find it though they sure dug hard enough through my skull looking for it.”

The Company and their perverted ideas of duty. They should have killed Sylar while they had the chance. So many deaths could have been prevented but no, they had to study him in their own maniacal quest for power. They were no different from Sylar. Worse, maybe, because he had the Hunger and a lifetime of abuse driving him. What was their excuse? It was the first time that Peter had been able to see Noah Bennet through Sylar’s eyes and it wasn’t a pretty picture.

Later, the guilt and horror at what he’d done sent Sylar to hang a noose around his neck but an angel stepped forward, straight out of Heaven, to save him.

Sylar talked for more than an hour, recounting every killing up to Odessa. The second one had been almost as wrenching as the first, and worse yet was the realization that his angel had set him up. After that, revenge fueled him.

“But they were innocent. None of your victims were people who hurt you.” Peter wanted to punch Sylar. No, he wanted to maim him for killing the parents of the little girl who escaped.

“I know that. It didn’t matter to me then. I was too far gone.”

They took a bathroom break and went back to their positions to continue with the hunt for the cheerleader who healed. Peter strove to keep his emotions in check, but the weight of so much suffering and devastation was bearing down on him. His chest ached and his fingers were stiff from clenching his fists in tight balls, hurting himself so he wouldn’t hurt Sylar.

Thinking about how terrified Claire had been, and her friend who Sylar had mistakenly killed, was too much. He swallowed around the soreness in his throat and his eyes stung with tears he repressed.

“And then you showed up. I wish I could say that it changed everything. It did, in the long run, but at the time, I wanted to strangle you.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Peter replied drily. And that feeling wasn’t just an abstraction from the past. He fought the urge to wrap his hands around Sylar’s neck and choke him; a part of him would enjoy watching the life ebb from the man’s eyes. For Nathan, for all of Sylar’s victims and the people who had loved them.

Sylar made grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch that neither of them ate, merely picked around the edges. The sandwich smelled delicious but tasted like sawdust in Peter’s mouth and his stomach rebelled after one bite. Sylar drank tea but Peter could only tolerate water, as if it could wash away the dirtiness he felt inside.

He took a walk after lunch. Sylar exacted his promise to return and Peter kept his word, but first he walked and then he sped up to a fast jog, trying to outrun his disgust at Sylar’s confession. He’d known all of these stories or many of them, but not like this, from the corrupted mouth of the culprit. He ran so hard he was heaving for breath and when he finally calmed his racing heartbeat, he vomited. When there was nothing left inside of him, the sickness subsided. Heading back to Sylar’s place, Peter grabbed a bottle of water from a convenience store to wash out his mouth. His footsteps grew heavier as he approached Sylar’s building and everything in him resisted going back. But he’d promised and lives were hanging on his decisions. He trudged up the stairs and went inside.

Sylar was back on the couch, partially reclining now as if he were in a therapy session which, in a way, he was. _Some therapist. I wonder if Freud ever puked on the sidewalk._

Sylar looked as bad as Peter felt. His skin was pale and blotchy and his eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in hollow pink circles as if he’d been rubbing himself raw. His hair, usually well-groomed, was a mess. It didn’t make Peter sympathetic but he could tolerate more of the confession knowing that it was taking its toll on Sylar too, even if the killer’s pain was self-inflicted and self-serving.

Not all of it was terror and murder. Sylar filled in details of scenarios he’d brought up before, times when he’d spared and even helped people. Peter limited his questions but when Sylar got to the part about Danko, Peter wanted clarification he’d requested before but had never received.

“If you hated what my brother was doing to specials, why’d you work with Danko?” he asked. Danko’s plans were arguably worse than Nathan’s.

“Because we had a common enemy. He despised your brother as much as I did, maybe more. And for selfish reasons of my own. I’d always planned to sabotage the operation but first —“

“The abilities. Danko handed them to you on a silver platter.”

“Yes. The Hunger was all consuming by that point. I was out of options. Nobody would help me stop. I’d met my father and seen my future. There was nowhere I belonged except out hunting …”

It had all begun unraveling for Sylar then. He couldn’t control the shape shifting and he was losing touch with who he was. The identity crisis and confusion were sharpened by the Hunger and guilt. As he spoke Peter recalled that things had been coming apart for everyone at the same time and he remembered too how overuse of some abilities taxed him physically and emotionally. Still, he could find little sympathy for Sylar as the climax of the confession drew near.

“You know what happened at the Stanton.” Sylar glanced over at Peter and offered a get out of jail free card. “You don’t want to hear the details, do you?”

“I just wanna know if he suffered.” Would Sylar pick up on the subtext, that Peter wanted to hear that Nathan had died too fast to feel any pain or sorrow?

“No. It was quick. I made sure of that.” Peter grimaced at the cavalier tone of Sylar’s statement but this wasn’t the time for recriminations. Sylar had apologized for Nathan’s death. It had taken years but until this confession, it had been the only sincere sign of genuine remorse Sylar had shown for any of his victims.

“You’ve never told me why. He wasn’t a threat to you.”

“Because he was there. Because I hated him for what he’d done. Because he had everything, all of the advantages, and he wasted them. You know how I feel about specials who shrink from their gifts.”

“Yeah, you want to take what they’re not using. But you didn’t. You never did get Nathan’s ability.”

“I didn’t want anything from him.” Sylar had said the same thing to Peter once. Peter would have been dead, too, if Nathan hadn’t intervened at the Stanton. Recalling that Nathan’s last act had been one of heroic sacrifice, Peter sniffled.

Sylar’s head snapped sideways to look at Peter. Peter avoided eye contact, making a show of stretching his neck and back and shifting in his seat as if all this sitting and not Sylar’s story was getting to him.

They’d gotten past the worst part and although he hadn’t broken down, Peter felt ill again. He wasn’t the only one who had suffered, yet Nathan’s death mattered more to him than all the others put together. Here he was demanding that Sylar muster some semblance of feeling for his victims and all Peter could think about was what he’d lost. How was he supposed to redeem a killer when their motivations had been so similar? Was it Sylar’s fault that his gift came with a curse? All he’d ever wanted was to be special. Peter could understand that. What if instead of empathic mimicry, Peter had been granted intuitive aptitude along with the Hunger?

But then he mused at how abilities seemed to align with people’s personalities. Nathan was always afraid, hence, the ability to fly away from it all, and even that frightened him until he had no choice but to use the power. Matt was jealous, controlling, and worried about other people’s opinions of him, and his ability let him hear what people really thought and enabled him to force his thoughts on them. Claire’s healing saved her from her self-destructive impulses. Was it any wonder a guy with a crushing inferiority complex had an ability that matched his intellect and curiosity? The Hunger didn’t cause Sylar’s narcissism, it only gave him the compulsion to act on it and intuitive aptitude gave him the means. Without abilities, he would still have been an arrogant jerk, masking his low self-esteem with a towering but ultimately fragile ego. Then again, people’s personalities and circumstances weren’t their fault either. It was all such a muddle yet Peter held fast to the conviction that while he might now understand better what drove Sylar, people were still accountable for their choices. Understanding and compassion didn’t require condoning evil actions.

“How do you feel now that you know everything?” Sylar asked when he’d come to the end of his confession. He turned on the couch to confront Peter as if expecting to be berated. The look on his face was almost hopeful. But Peter hadn’t promised to be judge nor jury. He’d listened. That was all he could offer.

It was late and Peter realized they hadn’t eaten all day. That could account for the light headedness and clamminess stealing over him.

“Sick,” He answered and dashed to the bathroom. With nothing in his stomach, only bile came up and then dry heaves. Peter doused his face with water but it didn’t help the cold sweat that arose on his skin. He was starting to hyperventilate and if he didn’t get hold of himself, he was going to pass out. By sheer stubbornness, he calmed his erratic breathing, inhaling slowly and deeply instead of the quick shallow breaths that had been making him dizzy. His wild heartbeat decelerated and the nausea began to fade.

Peter emerged from the bathroom and skirted the couch where Sylar was still sitting, heading for the kitchen.

“I need to eat something,” he called out to Sylar. “You should too. Your blood sugar’s gotta be as low as mine.” There was no answer. Peter put together a plate of cheese, crackers and sliced apples. He was too hungry to wait for anything that required cooking.

Sylar was still on the couch with his knees drawn close to his chest, his hands clasped around them and his head down.

Peter laid the plate on the coffee table and sat on the couch facing Sylar. He forced a few bites of cheese past his dry throat while he thought about what to do next.

“Sylar?” He cut himself off from asking if the man were okay. It was clear that he wasn’t. “I appreciate you telling me all that even if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. That had to be rough.” Peter echoed Sylar’s earlier question. “How do you feel?”

“I saw them. All of them.” Sylar’s voice came out muffled because he was speaking into his knees. Peter waited for him to say more.

“They’ve only ever come to haunt my dreams. They were weak and frightened and I took advantage of that. I thought I was better than they were. Stronger. But if that were true I wouldn’t have needed them to be afraid so I could feel powerful. They were innocent, Peter, and they didn’t deserve what I did to them. Their families didn’t deserve to lose them.”

“No,” Peter agreed. “They didn’t.”

Sylar lifted his head and Peter saw that his face was drenched with tears that were still streaming from his eyes. Peter had never seen Sylar cry. He’d witnessed plenty of the man’s emotional outbursts, ranting in anger and deflecting all responsibility on the people who’d hurt him, who’d abused, used, tricked and betrayed him. Or else he went on jags of self-pity, calling himself names, wracked with guilt and self-hatred. There was none of that drama now. Sylar wasn’t sobbing. He barely made any noise at all and he didn’t move to wipe the silent tears that fell in a seemingly endless rain of grief. Was this, finally, the remorse that Peter had hoped to see? Had it been there all along, suppressed because it was too painful to confront?

Peter stared out the window, though night had long since fallen and there was nothing to see. There was nothing to say, either, that wasn’t already expressed by the weeping man before him. He suspected it would be a long time until Sylar expunged the poison seeping out of him and the stain left behind would never be cleansed. They had long since scoured away and painted over the bloody handprint on Sylar’s door but the one on his soul was permanent. At least there was hope now that he might actually have a soul worth saving.

“What do I do now?” Sylar asked as the tears slowed to a trickle. “There’s no fixing this. I can’t do anything for them.” His voice was thick and nasal from sinuses that were no doubt swelled. He probably needed to blow his nose but Peter refrained from handing him a box of tissues. It seemed like a condescending thing to do.

“You live with it,” Peter said, gazing solemnly at the repentant killer.

Sylar’s eyebrows twisted in a tortured grimace as his eyes met Peter’s. “How?!” The plaintive tone in his voice was new.

“You just do. One day, or one hour or one minute at a time. Stop running away from the consequences of your actions and let yourself feel it. Then use it to make things better for others.”

Sylar nodded. His eyes welled up with more tears that he couldn’t prevent from flowing even by screwing his eyes shut.

“I didn’t know it would be like this,” Sylar admitted. “I didn’t let myself think about them or their families. I’d wake up from nightmares, accused and tortured. The guilt, that was always there, but it was about me, not them. I’ve never understood your power — the abilities and how to use them, yes, but not the empathy. I was only able to use it the one time, with Elle, and that didn’t turn out well.” Sylar raked his messy hair and let his gaze wander the room aimlessly until coming to rest on Peter again. “This is what grieving feels like, isn’t it?”

Moved by Sylar’s plight for the first time in a long and emotionally draining day, Peter reached out and covered Sylar’s hand with his own. “Yeah.”

His eyes were watering in sympathy for all of the broken people Sylar had left in his wake. And although it was unreasonable to feel anything for someone who had done so much evil and who’d torn Peter’s own life asunder, Peter found himself hurting for Sylar too. Sylar deserved all of the punishment he could heap upon himself but it still sucked. Redemption wasn’t pretty; it wasn’t miraculous or heartwarming. There was no happy ending for anyone in this story.

Sylar shook his head and pulled his hand away. “Don’t. Save your pity for people who deserve it.”

“It’s not pity, Sylar. It’s empathy. I may not relate to the depth of what you’re feeling but I know what it’s like to regret things you’ve done. Sometimes I was lucky...I went back in time and fixed things. It didn’t change what I’d done, but it spared me from the consequences.”

“Just go, Peter. You can’t comfort me. I wouldn’t want it even if you could. I’ll find you when I’m ready.”

Peter did as he was asked and closed the door gently behind him. There was no cure in his medical bag, not for Sylar’s victims, nor their families, certainly not for Sylar. Peter could do nothing about his own regrets and losses. Most of the ills of the world had no solutions and could only be borne as best as one could. The closest thing to a healing balm that he had ever known was to help as many people as he could and even that was an infinitesimal drop in an ocean of pain.

The truth was that life was suffering and nobody escaped it. Peter had once thought he could save the world. He had bargained with God to be extraordinary and had believed abilities were the gift he’d been waiting for all of his life, so that he could right the wrongs he encountered. It was only after countless failures and years trapped with an unrepentant killer that he had no choice but to learn what reality did its damnedest to teach him. There was very little he could do, even with his original ability.

No matter how much power he had — and these days it wasn’t much — refusing to accept defeat was a kind of hubris that led to the monstrous acts Peter’s parents had committed. Good intentions weren’t enough. It was something his father had never learned and that he wasn’t sure his mother ever would. Nathan might have been coming around to it before he’d died, and even Peter still struggled with it. Banging on an implacable brick wall day after day while contending with a murderer who was his own unyielding edifice had been a crash course in humility.

It wasn’t only the trauma of dealing with abilities and their consequences that had opened Peter’s eyes. He had witnessed it every day as an EMT when he lost patients, or transported nursing home residents whose minds were ravaged by dementia. He’d picked up the same addicts and prostitutes week after week and answered calls from lonely people who dialed 911 because it was the only time anyone paid attention to them.

Fellow EMTs with huge hearts and high ideals flamed out from the futility of trying to make a dent in the suffering within a mere few square miles of one city. _Save the world?_ It wasn’t a bad fantasy for people who hadn’t seen enough of what the world dished out but everyone had to grow up sometime. Peter had told Samuel Sullivan that he’d left hospice nursing for emergency medical service because he wanted to save lives, not just watch them pass. He hadn’t lost his ideals, but he’d had plenty of time on his hands to reflect on his experiences and swallow the dose of practicality that life had forced on him. He had once lain awake all night listening to emergency calls, driving himself relentlessly to save everyone, as if he could. That had been his penance, to push the rock up the hill only to have it roll back down, again and again, until he had learned to accept his limits. He did what he could and that had to be enough to put his head on the pillow each night knowing that whatever kindness, compassion and sacrifice he could offer made a difference, however small.

Sylar would have to learn these lessons, if he could, the same way as everyone else — through a sincere desire to give instead of take. Show up, do one’s best, accept and learn from mistakes and get up the next day to do it all over again . The only way to be special was to find purpose in the struggle. It was all in the doing. Everything else was ego.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

It was more than a week before Sylar was able to show his face. For the first few days, Peter hadn’t even seen the man and he suspected it was because Sylar hadn’t left his apartment. Gradually he ventured out and Peter would see him in passing, but Sylar would only nod or wave in greeting and keep going on his way.

Peter was in the diner cooking home fries and mindlessly counting the pattern of the kitchen subway tiles. He was bored and lonely, having had more than his fill of time to process the events as he worked at the wall and wandered the empty streets.

“I hope there’s enough coffee for me,” came Sylar’s voice from behind him. Peter spun to face the taller man who had surprised him in the midst of his daydreaming.

“Sure. There’s plenty. Breakfast, too, if you’re hungry. How are you?”

“Better,” he acknowledged. “There are times when I lose myself in books and timepieces and then it sneaks up on me. Part of me wishes I could erase those memories. Part of me knows I don’t deserve it. They can’t forget me and I won’t let myself forget them.”

“I think that’s pretty standard,” Peter said.

“Not that anything I’ve done is standard, huh?” Sylar gave a rueful snort and accepted the coffee Peter poured for him.

They returned to their routines and things went back to normal. Peter pounded the wall. Sylar read his books and brought food. Sometimes, more often than ever before, he swung a sledgehammer too. He was still himself, with traces of the old arrogance and superiority. The sarcasm was still there, but it was less cutting than it had been. His temper didn’t flare as easily as it had — after all there were few secrets left between them, no more answers for Peter to demand and Sylar to deflect with word games and accusations about Peter’s past actions. Peter suspected there was more to learn about Sylar’s childhood but he didn’t press. Sylar didn’t owe him those stories. It was the killings Peter had wanted explained and now he knew.

The topic of forgiveness had come up once and Sylar had dropped it at Peter’s insistence that he was trying. “I know I have my own demons to battle. It’s going to take more time,” he’d said.

Now that Sylar’s long-standing anger towards Peter had largely faded, Peter found that he’d run out of excuses to fight with him. He could feel the hate and desire for vengeance slipping away. With it came the humbling realization that he’d been as much to blame for all of their fights as Sylar had. Yes, Sylar irritated him and deliberately provoked him but on some level Peter had welcomed it as cover for the things he’d already wanted to say and do. He wasn’t ready to let go of those feelings. It wasn’t fair to Nathan. Sylar had killed his brother and there was no getting around it. Apologies or not, Peter still wanted Sylar to pay and pay and pay. And so he was now doing the provoking and Sylar wouldn’t play along. That only made him angrier.

“Why are you picking at me?” Sylar asked one rainy evening as they circled one another in the apartment that was far too small to contain all of the convoluted  feelings they had about one another. Peter was restless and agitated; he had wanted to be pounding the wall not stuck indoors with his brother’s killer, but it had rained all day. _Why am I even here?_

“I am not picking on you. You’re just paranoid.” Peter went over to the piano and began to play, hoping to give outlet to his pent up energy and frustration. After awhile, he was able to lose himself in the music. 

“We need a new song,” Sylar called out from behind him.

“Excuse me,” Peter said, refusing to give Sylar the courtesy of turning around to face him. “I never claimed to be a virtuoso. Sorry my playing isn’t good enough for you.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Sylar came over to the bench and planted himself on the corner that Peter wasn’t occupying. “Scoot over.”

Peter glared at him but did as asked and Sylar moved so that he was no longer hanging off the edge of the bench. Peter could feel Sylar’s gaze on his profile. Heaving a sigh at his childish attempt to ignore the man he finally looked at him.

“Don’t you remember the song you taught me on the guitar?” Sylar asked. “The one where I’m the nightmare and you’re the miracle?”

Peter rolled his head from side to side, irritated at Sylar for still insisting that Peter had been sending a message. He wasn’t so arrogant that he thought of himself as a miracle, though Sylar being a nightmare certainly had fit. “I remember but it wasn’t about you, alright? Not everything is about you.”

“I just meant that a lot of things have changed. We need a new song.”

Peter began playing and waited for Sylar to recognize the tune. “Like this one?” he said.

“Really? Don’t you think that’s a bit trite? Or are you being spiteful? Imagine there’s no Sylar?” 

Peter shrugged. “Maybe imagine there’s no abilities.”

“You can do better than that.” Sylar’s expression was condescendingly patient.

 _Fuck you._ Peter’s thigh and shoulder were warm where they touched Sylar’s and he was disturbingly aware of the other man’s body and how close they were. He didn’t want to feel this way but his body didn’t care about his stupid emotions. “Okay, I’ve got one.” His fingers skimmed the keys, trying to remember the chords that he heard in his mind. He played haltingly until the right notes came to him.

Sylar picked up on the tune and hummed along. “You _are_ being spiteful.” He sang the words:

 

_“I wish I was special. You’re so fucking special.”_

 

 _“_ I didn’t mean that part,” Peter protested, realizing that he’d chosen another song that painted himself as the good one.

“I get it,” Sylar said. “I _am_ a creep and a weirdo. It's not like you to be mean but It’s true. And you do look like an angel.” He tousled Peter’s hair, mussing it more than it already was.

Peter ducked his head away from Sylar’s hand. _Why’s he always touching my hair?_

“So maybe the song thing wasn’t a good idea. You’re angry. I understand. But I’ve changed.”  Sylar leaned forward on the bench, angling his head to insinuate himself into Peter’s field of vision. Peter finally turned his head and his gaze roamed Sylar’s face, watching his mouth form words and his eyes plead for something, some recognition.

“Don't you see that? I wish I could help you the way you’ve helped me. I wish I could play the piano and find the song to say that. I’m not going to hurt you or anyone else ever again and I know that’s small consolation for what I’ve done. I know you’re not ready to forgive me and maybe you’ll never be. I accept that. I don’t deserve your forgiveness but I can’t help that I want it — very much.”

Peter was moved in spite of himself. He’d tried so hard to incinerate them both with his hate, even while he denied that he craved revenge and only wanted to save people. Yeah save people or die trying, either way would have been okay with Peter as long as he took Sylar with him. That fire was losing its power, the embers crumbling to ash that fell from his fingers even as he strove to keep them burning. For Nathan.

Who’s to say that Nathan would have wanted that anyway? What kind of life would that be? Would Peter want Nathan to avenge him if the situation had been reversed? Oh but Nathan would have and whatever Peter might have wanted didn’t play into it at all. Sylar would have been dead long ago at Nathan’s hand if there were a way to kill him here or anywhere. _I’m not Nathan. I’ve honored his memory. Haven’t I?_

Sylar’s earnestness was making it impossible to keep hating him. He really was remorseful and Peter could see it was costing him. Sylar had never allowed himself to be this vulnerable before. It would be easy, now, to break him into a million tiny jagged pieces to be scattered in the breeze, and they both knew it, but Peter didn’t have that in him. _I’m sorry, Nathan. I love you._

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to speak any words of comfort or reassurance. He couldn’t say anything at all.

“I just want you, Peter. Still. That hasn’t changed and I don’t think it’s going to. If you can honestly say that you don’t feel it, too, then okay. I’ll never speak of it again.”

Sylar paused as if expecting a response and when none came, he went on. “I think that’s not what you want. You’re at war with yourself and believe me, that’s something I can understand. You want comfort. You _need_ it. You’re so lonely and hurt, it’s coming off you in waves but you don’t want it from me. You think it’s wrong, a sin. Yet I’m the only one here.” Sylar finished, looking around as if to underscore his point about there only being the two of them.

Peter compressed his mouth, afraid to let any sound escape or his lips to tremble and give away the emotions that were battering his tired body. He nodded several times, blinking his eyes. Sylar had accurately encapsulated what he was feeling.

“Have you considered, Peter, that maybe I _am_ the right person? I’m the one who hurt you. I can’t fix it. Not in a million years, not if I grovel and beg — which I will if you want or need that. I could be your slave and do your bidding for the rest of your life, save everyone you want to save and it still wouldn’t begin to make up for what I took. I know that. But I do have things to offer.”

Peter waited for Sylar to say something obnoxious so he could exorcise his guilt about sitting here, in front of a piano that had been a gift from the man who’d ended his brother’s life, having a conversation about — what? Sylar making restitution through sex? _I might kill him yet._

“Company.” It wasn’t what Peter had been expecting him to say. “Loyalty. A connection. So you’d know you’re not alone anymore and there’s one person in this world who isn’t going to betray or use you, who’s always going to have your back. That’s what you said you wanted, right? You asked me to commit. I’m committing.”

Peter lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his hand over his face. Sylar kept throwing those words back at him but it was what he’d asked for so how could he blame the man. He continued to nod his head to show he was listening. Sylar’s version wasn’t what he had meant by committing, it was so much more. He couldn’t look at Sylar any longer. He couldn’t face eyes that were reading him so well, like that old song. Killing him softly. It was exactly what he wanted, what he’d always wanted and here was his worst enemy, the only person who’d ever offered it. And not just an offer, but a promise. It was too much to bear, too fucked up for words or even thought.

He grabbed Sylar’s shirt with both hands, wanting to shove him off the bench but instead he just shook him. “Why?” He growled. “Of all the goddamn people, why _you?_ ” The tangled emotions he’d been battling won out and the tears were beyond his ability to suppress. Peter gave in to the moment and whatever might come of it.

“I know,” Sylar soothed, patting Peter’s shoulder and letting Peter shake him. “The world doesn’t make sense. It never has. Are you — you’re crying?” Peter felt Sylar’s arms go around him and pull him close. One hand rubbed up and down his back. His own hands on Sylar’s shirt were in the way and he let them fall to the side. He couldn’t bring himself to hug back but he wasn’t going to refuse the embrace he was receiving. If Sylar wanted to give, he was going to take. This wasn’t a betrayal of Nathan. It was just simple human warmth and comfort. He had needs, too, and Sylar was right — he was the only one here.

Peter buried his face against Sylar’s chest while Sylar stroked his back and his hair. He felt a touch on the top of his head. Did Sylar just kiss him? “It’s okay, Peter. It’s going to be okay. Let me help.” 

Peter pulled back, sniffling, and met Sylar’s eyes. “What do you mean by _help?_ ” 

“Whatever you want it to mean. I’m hugging you. If that’s what you want, I’ll keep doing it.”

“Yeah okay. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

 But now the mood that had established the embrace was broken and Peter felt awkward. He had cried in Sylar’s arms. Sylar! It was embarrassing that he’d fallen apart and allowed Sylar to not only witness his thoroughly unguarded emotions, but to offer comfort. It was a spontaneous moment that had arisen between them, with Sylar recognizing and trying to fulfill his need and Peter too distressed to refuse. Now he had to end it without making it weirder than it already was. He patted Sylar’s arm as a signal to let go and gently pushed against him to extricate himself.

“I’m okay. I need to blow my nose.” Sylar released him without comment and Peter escaped to the bathroom to pull himself together. When he exited the bathroom after clearing his stuffed up nose and washing his face, Sylar was in the kitchen. Peter flopped onto the couch, exhausted, even though he hadn’t done anything physical to make him feel so tired. Sylar came back with two mugs of tea and set one down on the coffee table near Peter, giving him an appraising look but not saying anything. Sylar went to the opposite end of the couch and Peter pulled his outstretched legs away to make room for him to sit.

“Thanks for the tea,” Peter said. “And … everything.”

Sylar waved his hand dismissively. “Stop thanking me. Anyone would have done the same.”

“You’d be surprised, Sylar. Lots of people — men especially — have no idea how to handle that kind of thing.”

“Really.” Sylar said mildly, with a trace of a smirk to match his upraised eyebrow. “Imagine that.”

“Huh, yeah.” Peter gave a small smile in return before lifting his mug to drink from it.

He never did finish the tea, zoning out as he thought about the events of the day and how accurate Sylar was about how much had changed even though the world around them never did. His next realization was that the apartment was dark, there was a blanket over him and a pillow under his head. He hadn’t meant to sleep here but oh well. Just beyond the living room, he could hear Sylar snoring softly. He tried to let the rhythm of the snores lull him back to sleep and found that he couldn’t stop thinking about Sylar being in bed over there while he was here on the couch, alone. What would happen if he — no. He shouldn’t. Several minutes later he did. _Fuck it. I’m already in deep. Might as well dig myself in the rest of the way._ There was nobody else here to be hurt by his actions and out there, somewhere, anyone who had a problem with it would have to deal. Peter slid his jeans off, pulled his shirt over his head and tiptoed to Sylar’s bedside. Sylar had rolled onto his side, facing away from Peter, and was no longer snoring. Peter slipped into bed beside him and pulled the covers up over his shoulder.

He should have known Sylar would wake up. Of course he did. Too many nights on the run had made light sleepers of them both. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Sylar raised himself to a partially upright position, and although it was too dark to see his face, from the rigid way he held his body, he was clearly surprised.

“What are you doing?”

Peter touched Sylar’s forearm, absently stroking the hairs he could feel beneath his fingers. He felt shy for some ridiculous reason. “You said I needed to commit, too.”

“Wait right there. I need to see you. Damn this place with no abilities.” He turned away and reached across the small bed to switch on the lamp. In an instant he was on his side, facing Peter but still not lying down. A line of confusion had appeared between his eyebrows and his dark eyes, beautiful, intense eyes, studied Peter’s face. “What does that mean? You — you forgive me?”

“I’m getting there. You said you wanted to help.” Peter stared back with as much intensity as he felt radiating from Sylar.

“And you’re going to let me.” Sylar reached out with a tentative hand and let one finger trail along the edges of the hair framing Peter’s face.

Peter smiled. “You like my hair, huh?”

“I do. Your face, too. Those damn puppy eyes.” Sylar’s knuckles grazed Peter’s cheek and his hand kept moving, down the side of his neck, across his collar bone and onto his shoulder, covered by the sleeve of his undershirt. “Your body. Damn, I want you.”

Peter slid his hands under Sylar’s shirt and up over his chest. “I like _this_. And your face. Those damn eyebrows,” he said, mimicking the way Sylar had spoken.

“Peter…” Sylar breathed out in a voice that was deep and dark and coveting. “I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

“Pretty sure I do.”

“Let’s find out then.” His mouth was on Peter’s now as he murmured, “No more talking,” and his lips moving against Peter’s as he said it sent a hot surge of desire along every nerve. The kiss that followed was long and languorous and coupled with strong hands moving everywhere, touching and stroking, gently removing clothing as if they had all the time in the world, which they did.

Peter was used to this kind of slow seduction from women. Men were typically in more of a hurry to get to the main event but Sylar took his time. The pace was making Peter crazy, amping his lust up to almost unbearable levels. He wanted more of everything and at the same time, he didn’t want it to end because the careful, reverent way Sylar handled him made him feel desired beyond all reason. And it was stoking every unmet physical and emotional need in a way that Peter thought he would either disintegrate or cry from the intensity.

They moved together in perfect rhythm as if they already knew each other’s bodies. Close, so close. It was delicious unhurried torture but Peter was ready now and with exploring hands and clever fingers, he brought Sylar along, loving the long, shuddering groan as Sylar came. He was right there too, lost in the pinpoint moment of pleasure that ripped through his entire body.

Sylar lay still, breathing hard. He brought his mouth to Peter’s ear, tickling him with his breath. “Don’t you dare feel guilty about this. That was too good to ruin.”

Peter couldn’t promise how he might feel tomorrow or at some point in the future that he didn’t care about right now. His mind was too blown to let anything as useless as guilt spoil it.

“No,” he agreed, his hands still roaming Sylar’s gorgeous, lean body. “No guilt.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
